The promise in a kiss c-8

by Stephanie Laurens

  Helena was relieved on the same score; she felt just a little bedraggled. Sebastian led her up the steps. The day was dark and gloomy; lights burned in the hall and lit the fanlight.

  A very correct butler opened the door; seeing them, he struggled to suppress a delighted smile. He bowed low. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian, leading Helena into the warmth and welcoming ambience of elegant luxury, raised a brow, directing a sharp glance his butler’s way. “Why, Doyle?”

  “We’ve been entertaining guests, Your Grace.” With unimpaired calm, Doyle switched his gaze to Helena.

  Sebastian sighed. “This is the comtesse d’Lisle—soon to be your mistress. Her sister, Mlle de Stansion, and M. de Sèvres.” He glanced around as the butler took his cloak, then moved to take Helena’s. “Where the devil are the footmen?”

  “I regret that they’re currently required in the library, my lord.”

  Sebastian turned to fix his gaze on the man. “Doyle—”

  The door to their left opened. “Really,Doyle, what do you mean by it? Why haven’t you shown whoever it is in? . . .”

  Lady Almira Cynster froze on the threshold of the drawing room and stared—stunned—at Sebastian. Then she colored. “Sebastian! Well! I thought you were in the country or . . .” Her words trailed off as she took in their party. She dismissed Phillipe and Ariele with a cursory glance; her gaze darkened as it fixed on Helena. Her face set in uncompromising lines.

  “What are you doing here, Almira?”

  Sebastian’s soft, almost menacing tones brought Almira’s gaze back to his face. Helena quelled a shiver; it had been weeks since she’d last heard such tones from him.

  “I . . . ah, well . . .” Almira gestured vaguely, coloring even more.

  After a brief, uncomfortable pause, Sebastian murmured, “Doyle, please show mademoiselle and M. de Sèvres to the library . . . ah, no, I forget—perhaps the parlor will be more to their taste—and serve them suitable refreshments. Mademoiselle la comtesse and I will join them shortly. We will be leaving within the hour for Somersham.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.” Doyle bowed, then ushered Ariele and Phillipe down the long hall and away.

  “Now, Almira, perhaps we might continue in my drawing room, rather than the hall.”

  She turned with a humph and flounced ungracefully back to plump down in the middle of a silk-covered sofa. Accepting that if she was to become Sebastian’s wife she would have to deal with the woman, Helena suppressed the urge to slink cravenly away with Ariele and Phillipe; instead she let Sebastian lead her into the drawing room.

  A footman materialized and shut the door behind them. If it had been any other lady, Helena would have felt dismayed to be seen in her brown gown, washed and with the hole at the shoulder repaired by Ariele, but still crumpled and stained. Almira, however . . . she simply couldn’t consider the woman as one whose opinion should worry her.

  As they neared the sofa, she saw that the table before it supported teapot, cups and saucers, and two plates with biscuits and cakes. There were four cups set out, all with tea in them, three untouched.

  Sebastian regarded the display and faintly raised one brow. “I repeat—what are you doing here, Almira?”

  His tone was softer, less frightening.

  Almira humphed. “I’m practicing, aren’t I? I’ll have to do it someday—indeed, we should be living here now. Scandalous to have such a great house with no lady to run it.”

  “I agree—at least with your last statement. So you’ll be pleased to hear that Mlle d’Lisle has consented to become my wife. My duchess.”

  Reaching for her teacup, Almira stilled, then looked up. “Don’t be daft!” Her face filled with dismissive contempt. “They all said you were going to marry her, but you’ve just spent the better part of a week gadding about alone with her.” She snorted and picked up her cup. “You won’t catch me with that. You can’t marry her—not now. Think of the scandal.”

  The thought of the scandal clearly heartened Almira; she smiled gloatingly as she lowered her cup.

  Sebastian regarded her, then sighed. “Almira, I don’t know why you fail to perceive it, but as I’ve told you before, there’s a vast difference between the unwritten laws that govern the conduct of one such as I, or Mlle d’Lisle, and those that apply to the bourgeoisie.” His tone left little doubt as to the difference. “Hence, you will most definitely be required to attend our wedding, and that in the not overly distant future.”

  The delicate cup cradled between her hands, Almira stared blankly at him. Then she suddenly set down the cup. “Charles! You must see him.”

  She surged to her feet. Sebastian stayed her with an upraised hand. “You will bring him to Somersham as usual—I’ll see him there.”

  Almira pouted. “There’ll be others there. He’s your heir—you must spend more time with him. Besides, he’s here.”

  “Here?”The single word was loaded with foreboding. “Where? No—silly question. I take it he’s in the library?”

  “Well, what of it? It’ll be his one day . . .”

  Sebastian whirled and strode for the door.

  “Well, itwill !” Almira hurried after him.

  Towed along, her hand locked in Sebastian’s, Helena heard him mutter as he hauled open the drawing room door, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  The library was two doors along; a footman saw them coming and flung the door wide. The scene they came upon would have been farcical if it hadn’t been so strange. Three footmen stood in a wide ring around a toddler, who was sitting on a rug some way before the hearth. The little boy simply sat, face glum, and stared woodenly at the dark shelves lining the long room.

  The child was instantly recognizable as Almira’s—the same round face and receding chin, the same ruddy complexion.

  She rushed past them and swept the boy up in her arms. To Helena’s surprise, the child showed no reaction, but simply turned his wooden gaze on Sebastian and her.

  “See!”Almira all but thrust the boy at Sebastian. “You don’t have to marry her—there’s no need! You already have an heir—”

  “Almira!”

  The single word cracked; shocked, Almira blinked, shut her mouth.

  Helena glanced at Sebastian, sensed him rein in his temper, cast quickly about for the best direction to take.

  Then he released her hand; stepping between Almira and her, he took Almira by the elbow. “Come. It’s time you went home.” He led her up the long room toward the door. “Mlle d’Lisle and I will be married at Somersham; you will bring Charles there, and you will both attend the wedding. Helena will then be my duchess. After that it will not be appropriate for you to call here while we are not in residence. Do you understand?”

  Almira paused; even across the width of the room, Helena could sense her frustrated puzzlement. “She will be your duchess.”

  “Yes.” Sebastian paused, then added, “And her son will be my heir.”

  Almira looked back at him; her face slowly leached to its previous wooden state. “Well, then.” Hoisting Charles in her arms, she turned to the door that a footman held open. “Of course, if she’s to be your duchess, then there’s no need for me to come and take charge of things here.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, good-bye, then.” Without a backward glance, Almira went out.

  Sebastian gestured, and the footmen—all, Helena noticed, looking hugely relieved—quickly left. They shut the door behind them; his expression distant, Sebastian walked back to her. Then he shook his head, looked up, and met her gaze. “I regret that that is what you’ll have to deal with. But there’s no one more difficult, that I can promise.”

  She smiled, wondering . . .

  He looked at her, into her eyes, then sighed and took her hands. “Mignonne,we will get along a great deal better if you will simply tell me your thoughts, rather than leaving me to guess them.”

  She frowned at him, uncertain.

 
His next sigh was less patient. “You’re worrying again—about what?”

  She blinked, suppressed a smile, considered, then, drawing her hands from his, walked to the nearby window, a wide bay looking over a lawn. The shrubs surrounding the lawn were wet and gleaming, bejeweled by the misty rain.

  She owed him so much—her freedom, Ariele’s as well. She was more than willing to give him the rest of her life in recompense—to put up with his dictatorial ways, to bow to the possessiveness that was so much a part of him. That would be the least of a fair exchange.

  Yet . . . perhaps she owed him still more.

  Something that only she could grant him.

  Perhaps she owed him his freedom, too.

  “You said—before, at Somersham—that you had a question you were waiting to ask me, once I was ready to give you an answer.” She lifted her head, drew in a breath, surprised to discover how tight her chest felt. “I wish you to know that I will understand if you no longer, truly, in your heart, wish to ask me that question.”

  She held up a hand to stop him from speaking. “I realize you must marry, but there are many others who could be your duchess. Others to whom you would not be . . . bound, as you are to me. As I am to you.”

  Looking across the garden, she forced herself to say, her voice quiet, clear, “You never wished to marry, perhaps because you never wished to be bound, as you will be if we wed. If we marry, you will never be free—the chains will always be there, holding us, linking us.”

  “And what of you?” His voice was deep, low. “Will you not be equally bound, equally snared?”

  Her lips curved fractionally. “You know the answer.” She glanced at him, met his blue gaze. “Regardless of whether we marry or not, I will always be yours. I will never be free of you.” After an instant she added, “And I do not wish to be.”

  The declaration—and her offer of freedom—hung between them. She slowly drew breath and looked back at the lawns, at the glistening shrubs.

  He watched her, unmoving; a long moment passed, then she sensed him draw near. His arms came around her, closed, then locked tight. He bent his head, held her close, leaned his chin against her temple.

  Then he spoke, his voice low.

  “No power on earth could make me give you up. The power that rules the heavens would never let me live without you. And that doesn’t mean as duke and mistress, but as day-to-day lovers—husband and wife.” Easing his hold, he turned her, met her gaze. “You are the only woman I have ever thought of marrying, the only woman I can imagine as my duchess. And yes, I feel chained, and no, I do not appreciate the sensation, but for you—for the prize of having you as my wife—I will bear those chains gladly.”

  She studied his eyes; his emotions were for once unmasked, etched clearly in the burning blue. She read them, acknowledged their truth, accepted it. Still . . . “Almira mentioned scandal. Tell me truly—is she correct?”

  His lips curved, his smile a trifle wry. “No scandal. In France it may be different, but here—it’s not actually considered possible to create a scandal through traveling with one’s betrothed.”

  “But we’re not . . .” She tilted her head, considered his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I wasn’t sure how long we’d be away, so . . . I sent an announcement to the Clerk of the Court for inclusion in the Court Circular.”

  She felt her eyes widen as realization dawned. “Beforewe left Somersham?”

  “Before you take umbrage, pray consider this point.” Capturing her hands, he raised them to his lips, captured her gaze with his eyes. “If you now refuse me, you’ll expose me to the ridicule of the entire ton. I’ve laid my heart and my honor at your feet, publicly—they’re yours to trample if you choose.”

  He was manipulating her again—she knew it. Trample his heart? All she wanted was to cherish it. “Humph!” It was hard to frown when her heart was soaring. Lifting her chin, she nodded. “Very well—you may ask me your question now.”

  He smiled, not triumphant but wistfully grateful, and her heart turned over.

  “Mignonne,will you be mine? Will you marry me and be my duchess—my partner in all my enterprises . . . my wife for the rest of my days?”

  Yes seemed far too simple. “You already know my answer.”

  He shook his head, his smile deepening. “I would never be so foolish as to take you for granted. You must tell me.”

  She couldn’t not laugh. “Yes.”

  He arched a brow. “Just yes?”

  She smiled gloriously, reached up and twined her arms about his neck. “Yes with all my heart. Yes with all my soul.”

  * * *

  There was nothing more to say.

  In perfect accord they traveled on to Somersham as Sebastian had decreed, but when they arrived, he discovered that, powerful though he might be, there were yet some things beyond his control.

  The huge house was full, filled to the rafters with family and friends, all waiting to hear their news.

  “Isaid just the usual crowd.” He bent a narrow-eyed look on Augusta as, beaming and bright, she kissed his cheek. “You’ve assembled half the ton!”

  Augusta pulled a face at him. “It wasn’t me who sent a notice to the Clerk. After that, what would you? You can hardly expect the tonnot to be interested in your nuptials.”

  “Indeed, dear boy.” Clara was in alt. “Such amomentous occasion! Of course everyone wanted to be here. We could hardly turn them away.”

  Augusta embraced Helena warmly. “I’m so pleased, as is everyone here! And I hope you won’t think us too busy, but Clara and I knew how it would be—my brother would never let a little thing like a wedding gown stand in his way—so we’ve had a gown, my mother’s old gown, remade. It should fit—we used the gowns you left here to match, and Marjorie’s been so helpful. I do hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure . . .” Helena’s head was whirling, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. She introduced Ariele, who Augusta greeted with glee.

  “Sixteen? Oh, my dear, you’ll do wonderfully well!”

  Phillipe, understandably, frowned when he was introduced, but Augusta didn’t notice. Ariele flashed him a quick smile, and he brightened. Before Helena could pay more attention herself, Augusta gathered her and Ariele and waved her fingers at her brother. “You’ll have to fend for yourself, Your Grace. The ladies have been waiting to meet Helena, and she’ll want to change first.” She glanced over her shoulder as she urged Helena and Ariele to the stairs. “You might want to check in the library. Last time I looked in, they’d broached your best brandy. You know, that French stuff you had brought in by water . . .”

  Sebastian cursed beneath his breath. He frowned at his sister, who paid not the slightest heed. With a muttered imprecation, he set off for the library.

  The front hall and all the major rooms were bedecked with holly wreaths and evergreens, the bustle and cheer of the season augmented and heightened by the excitement of their wedding. Huge logs burned in every grate; the smell of yuletide baking and mulled wine spiced the air.

  Christmas was upon them; a time to trust, a time to give. A time to share.

  Everyone gathered in the great house felt the inexorable rise of the tide, experienced the welling joy.

  So it was on the morning of Christmas Eve, with snow covering the grass, crisped by a hard frost and scattered with diamonds, a gift from the sun that shone in the clear sky, Helena stood in the chapel in the grounds of Somersham Place and took the vows that would bind her to Sebastian, to his home, to his family, for all time. Heard him take the corresponding vows to protect and cherish her, now and forever.

  In the atmosphere of blessed peace, of joy in love, in the time of the year when those emotions held sway and touched every heart, they were married.

  She turned to him, set back the delicate veil that had been his mother’s, noting the jeweled lights playing over them as the sun shone in benediction through the rose window. She went into his arms,
felt them close around her. Knew she was safe.

  Knew she was free—free to live her life under the protection of a loving tyrant.

  She lifted her face, and they kissed.

  And the bells rang out, joyously pealing in salute to the day, in salute to the season—in salute to the love that bound their hearts.

  Frost etched the glass in myriad patterns in the window beside which Sebastian sat writing. It was the next morning, and the huge house lay still, slumbering lazily, the guests too worn out by the revelry of the day before to bestir themselves so soon.

  In the large, luxuriously appointed ducal bedchamber with its massive four-poster bed, the only sounds to break the silence were the scritch-scratch of his pen, crossing and recrossing the parchment, and an occasional crackle from the fire. Despite the freeze that had laid siege beyond the glass, the temperature in the room was comfortable enough for him to sit and write in just his robe.

  On the desk, beside his hand, lay a dagger, old and worn, sheathed in leather. The hilt was gold, ornate, supporting a large, pigeon’s-egg-size star ruby. Although worth a small fortune by weight alone, the dagger’s true value could not be measured in any scale.

  Reaching the end of his missive, Sebastian laid down his pen, then glanced at the bed. Helena hadn’t stirred; he could see the tangle of her black curls lying on his pillow, just as he’d left them when he’d slipped from her side half an hour before.

  She’d been welcomed into the Cynster clan with a joy that had transcended even the joy of the season. During their wedding breakfast, which had lasted all day, he’d seen her blossom—shackling Martin and George with her eyes, with her laughter and her smiles, making them forever her slaves, exchanging glances with Augusta, conspirator and companion, already firm friends. He’d seen her deal calmly and graciously with Almira, with an understanding he lacked. Watched her charm Arthur, the most reserved of them all.